Crime at Bedtime

At approximately 12:35 in the morning on Wednesday the 29th of April 2015, in a small clearing in the jungle of a prison island called Nusa Kambangan, off the southern coast of Central Java in Indonesia, a group of eight men and one woman stood in a line, facing a 13-member firing squad. Two of them were Australians. The younger of the two was 31 years old. His name was Andrew Chan. He had been born in Sydney to Chinese immigrant parents. He had, ten years earlier, at the age of 21, been the ringleader of an operation to smuggle 8.3 kilograms of heroin from the Indonesian island of Bali into Australia. The older was 34. His name was Myuran Sukumaran. He had been born in London to Sri Lankan Tamil refugees and had moved to Australia as a young child. He had, ten years earlier, at the age of 24, been Chan's co-ringleader in the same operation. He had, in a peculiar and unhappy coincidence of dates, been arrested on his 24th birthday. Twelve days after his 34th birthday, he was going to die. What no one who met them in the early days of their imprisonment could have predicted was what the two men would become in the ten years between their conviction and their execution. Andrew Chan would find Christianity, become a prison pastor, and lead the English-language church congregation of Kerobokan Prison in Bali. He would marry his fiancee in the prison chapel on the last night of his life. Myuran Sukumaran, under the mentorship of one of Australia's most celebrated contemporary artists, would become an accomplished painter, producing more than 100 works during his years in prison, and completing his final canvas, a painting of the Indonesian flag with red paint dripping down the canvas like blood, in the hours before he walked out to the firing squad. The story of two young Australians whose serious crime was, in the end, met with a punishment their country considered barbaric, of the seven other Australians who were arrested with them and who spent between 14 and 19 years in Indonesian prisons, of the Australian Federal Police's controversial decision to tip off Indonesian authorities knowing what the consequences would be, and of the extraordinary hymn that eight condemned prisoners sang together in the darkness of a jungle clearing at 12:35 in the morning on the 29th of April 2015.
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On the morning of Tuesday the 13th of December 2016, a video began to circulate on Mexican social media that would, within 48 hours, be seen by millions of people around the world. It had been recorded in the small town of San Miguel Totolapan, in the state of Guerrero, in the Tierra Caliente region of south-western Mexico. It showed a middle-aged woman speaking directly into the camera, in Spanish, with a controlled and quiet fury that no one who watched the video would ever forget. Her name was Yadira Guillermo García. Two days earlier, her husband, a local engineer named Isauro de Paz Duque, had been kidnapped by a cartel known as Los Tequileros, led by a man known as El Tequilero, the Tequila Drinker. The gang had terrorised the town for years. They had killed her neighbours. They had kidnapped her friends. They had ransomed her fellow citizens for money the community did not have. Yadira Guillermo García had not, in the two days that followed her husband's kidnapping, gone to the police. She had not gone to the state government. She had not gone to the federal authorities. She had, instead, done something no one in Guerrero had ever seen a kidnap victim's wife do before. She had raised the townspeople. She had led them into the streets. And with them, on the Monday morning after her husband was taken, she had helped detain approximately 20 people believed to be members and allies of Los Tequileros. Among them was El Tequilero's own mother. And when Yadira Guillermo García sat down in front of the camera the following morning and looked into the lens, she said to the cartel boss who had taken her husband: I have your mother here. I want an exchange. The story of one woman's extraordinary act of defiance against one of the most feared criminal organisations in southern Mexico, of the town that armed itself to fight back, and of the terrible price the community would eventually pay for its moment of resistance when the cartel returned, six years later, and slaughtered 20 people including the mayor.
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At approximately 11 o'clock on the evening of Thursday the 11th of October 1973, two men walked into the Jackson County Sheriff's Office in the small Gulf Coast city of Pascagoula, Mississippi, and told the sheriff on duty that a few hours earlier, on the west bank of the Pascagoula River, they had been abducted by aliens. The older of the two men was Charles Hickson. He was 42 years old. He was a former military man. He was a shipyard fitter at the local Walker Shipyard. The younger was Calvin Parker. He was 19 years old. He was Hickson's co-worker. Neither of them, prior to that Thursday evening, had ever given a moment's thought to flying saucers. They had brought with them, to the sheriff's office, two catfish. They had, they explained, been fishing on the river when it happened. They had brought the catfish as evidence that the fishing part of their story, at least, was true. The sheriff, a man named Fred Diamond, listened to them describe a piercing sound in the air, blue lights on the water, an oval-shaped craft hovering silently at the edge of the river, and three creatures with grey folded skin, no visible eyes, and pincer-like claws for hands, who had paralysed them, floated them aboard the craft, and subjected them to a medical examination before returning them to the pier. Sheriff Diamond assumed, as any sheriff in Mississippi in 1973 would have assumed, that it was a hoax. He then, in the way that experienced law enforcement officers deal with suspected hoaxes, decided to test it. He put both men in an interview room. He ran a hidden tape recorder. He left them alone, expecting to catch them laughing. What he captured, on that tape, was two men, believing themselves to be unobserved, still absolutely terrified. Fifty-three years later, that tape has been recovered from a lost archive, listened to by researchers, and analysed alongside polygraph results, radiation testing, multiple corroborating witnesses, and the testimony of an American astronomer who had spent his career debunking UFO claims and who described this one, in careful language, as credible and deeply puzzling. The story of a night on the Pascagoula River in October 1973, of two ordinary men who reported an extraordinary experience, and of a mystery that has, in the 52 years since it happened, never been explained.
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At approximately 10 o'clock on the evening of Saturday the 27th of July 2019, a 23-year-old man in the Toronto suburb of Markham, Ontario, logged in to a private chat server on the messaging app Discord and began, in real time, to type a message that would be seen, over the course of the following 18 hours, by dozens of video gamers scattered across the world. His name was Menhaz Zaman. His username was Menhaz. His avatar, in the online video game he had played for years, was an elf cleric. The message he began to type read, in the plain lowercase style he typically used: "I killed mom and granny so far, waiting for sister in 5 minutes and dad in 1 hour." The other players initially assumed it was a joke. Then he sent a photograph. Over the following 18 hours, he would post a running commentary of a quadruple homicide, along with an explanation of why he was doing it. For three years, he had been telling his parents he was studying mechanical engineering at York University. He was not. He had dropped out of a lesser college after two semesters. He had told them his graduation was scheduled for Sunday the 28th of July 2019. As the deadline approached, and the lie became impossible to sustain, he decided instead to kill his mother, his grandmother, his 21-year-old sister, and his 59-year-old taxi-driving father, so that they would never have to discover the truth about who their son had become. The story of a three-year deception, a quadruple homicide committed over nine hours, an extraordinary international manhunt conducted by video gamers on a Discord server, and a Tunisian stranger who picked up the phone to Toronto Police to try to save two lives.
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On the morning of Wednesday the 29th of July 2015, New South Wales Police homicide detectives arrested a 68-year-old retired firefighter at his home in the south-western Sydney suburb of Campbelltown. His name was Leonard John Warwick. The charges laid against him ran to 32 offences, including four counts of murder, one count of attempted murder, and thirteen counts of causing bodily harm or property damage with an explosive substance. The offences dated back to a five-year period between February 1980 and July 1985. For 35 years, the state of New South Wales had known who it thought was responsible for one of the most sustained campaigns of politically motivated violence in modern Australian history. For 35 years, it had not been able to prove it. Over those five years in the early 1980s, a sitting judge of the newly established Family Court of Australia had been shot to death at his own front door. A judge's wife had been killed by a bomb on the doorstep of her home. A Jehovah's Witness minister had been killed, along with thirteen others injured, by a bomb detonated at a Kingdom Hall in south-western Sydney. And a young Family Court judge, along with his wife and two children, had narrowly survived a bomb that exploded outside their bedroom in the middle of the night. At the centre of every one of the incidents, in police files as thick as any built on a single individual outside the organised crime bureau, was the same name. A firefighter. An aggrieved former husband. A man who had been given visitation rights instead of custody of his infant daughter by a Family Court judge in 1979, and who had spent the following five years answering the court's decisions with bombs. The story of how one man's disappointment in a Sydney courtroom on a summer afternoon in 1979 led to the deaths of four people, the injury of dozens, and a 35-year manhunt that finally ended with three life sentences and the last decade of his life spent in prison.
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